


everyone knows i'm in [a sherlock ficmix]

by queenklu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes one look at Sherlock Holmes, and his ears pop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everyone knows i'm in [a sherlock ficmix]

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/queenklu/pic/000d0yzp)

 

LIGHTNING ROD ~ GUSTER   
steady on this high-rise, like every lightning rod   
and all these clouds are boiling over   
swimming in adrenaline, the sky is caving in   
but I will remain the honest soldier

 

John's not a rover, seldom sober or otherwise. He likes London because it's the entire world in his back pocket, easily accessible and easily escapable all at once. Before they packed him in that flying sardine can to Afghanistan, he’d only been on a plane once in his life—to Germany on holiday with his parents, who soon decided that they could put up with all the inconveniences of trains if it meant not listening to Harry scream bloody murder for four straight hours. Her ears never popped, no matter what techniques and gum and cajoling were employed.

 

John doesn't even have to yawn to relieve pressure in his eardrums—just lucky, he supposed as he watched men who chewed nails for breakfast curl in on themselves with pain. He easily acclimates.

 

Or he used to.

 

There’s no word for un-acclimating, or de-acclimating, or getting used to what you once thought was enough. He strides through London with his shoulders high, expecting enemy insurgents ready to finish the job, not Mike with his pudgy friendly face and an offer to solve all John’s problems.

 

John takes one look at Sherlock Holmes, and his ears pop.

 

SIDEDISH FRIEND ~ RACHEL YAMAGATA   
do you want to be the one on hold   
'cause you know I'll always come right back, yeah   
we can find a quiet place for both of us to go   
if you always know 

 

In primary school John knew a kid named Billy Friedricks who liked climbing trees and jungle gyms and desks in class. Billy tugged people along with his dimples, wandering because he knew he would be followed, classmates trailing after him like baby ducks. John was right there at the front of the line for a while, wanted to be close enough to see how many curls were in Billy’s eyes today as the teacher ordered him to _sit down, for goodness sake, before you break something._

 

Billy always shared a smile with him, a snickering gap-toothed grin that John returned eagerly, glad to be in on the joke. But Billy grinned like that at everyone, and when John tested his sick-bellied theory and sat at the back, Billy didn’t even look around to see where he’d gone. Gave his cheeky smirk to the ginger girl to his right and balanced a pencil on his nose.

 

Sherlock’s curls are darker, he doesn't seem to grin unless there's a serial killer involved, but John feels like a duckling all the same, toddling haphazardly after him waiting to be let in on the joke.

 

COPS & ROBBERS ~ THE HOOSIERS   
we want a revolution and we're baying for your blood   
we're laying down the law and your name is mud   
you'd like to be a member of the human race   
you want to be a good boy but you couldn't stand the taste 

 

He can’t breathe and it’s fantastic, feels like he could bloody well _fly_ and his nerves are singing, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest and Sherlock’s elbow nudging his arm. This is _the most_ ridiculous thing he’s ever done, so much more childish and freeing than standing on a desk. And Sherlock’s dry humor, the way his hair falls across his forehead and his lips quirk— _says the man at the door—_ John can’t honestly understand what he means, too caught up in—

 

But there’s Angelo with John’s cane. How did he not notice? How did he even keep up?

 

Sherlock smiles at his bewildered expression, a soft, easy, _There is no joke, besides Afghanistan._

 

Oh god. And bugger it. John is very well fucked.

 

BANG BANG YOU'RE DEAD ~ DIRTY PRETTY THINGS   
an illusion to a conclusion   
and oh its oh so tawdry   
when you put it to bed / kick it in the head   
oh won't they just let it be   
bang bang you're dead

 

He’s shot people before. He killed five men in as many minutes while applying pressure to an army sergeant’s leg, trying to keep him from bleeding out before help arrived.

 

This is not the same thing.

 

This is an entire courtyard and two sheets of glass between him and someone who _will kill Sherlock_.

 

It’s some grotesque mirror, this tweed-encased cabby and Sherlock’s dark stillness, their arms bent, hands reaching tiny white pills to their mouths. John’s muscles spasm and seize; There’s a crystal clear moment when he can see the shot, knows he has it, could not take it—and he does.

 

The cabby crumples, but the only thing John sees before he hits the deck is Sherlock’s arm, the way it jerks and how his fingers splay wide, empty.

 

He couldn’t care less about the cabby. That’s an ugly truth that solidifies sometime when John isn’t paying attention to anything but the way Sherlock Holmes asks him if he’s alright. As if he was the one with a deadly poison pressed to his lips.

 

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock murmurs, and John gives him a look.

 

This isn’t anything like _a bit not good._ But it feels like one more thing on the very short list of what he and Sherlock have in common. Number One) being generally considered a member of the human race, and Two) not exactly fitting with the social norms. There is, as of yet, no Three.

 

FUCK WAS I ~ JENNY OWEN YOUNGS   
skillet on the stove is such a temptation,   
maybe i'll be the lucky one that doesnt get burned.   
what the fuck was i thinking? 

 

The list of Reasons It Sucks to be Mildly Infatuated With Sherlock Holmes in a Possibly Homosexual Way, however, could cover every street in London.

 

Heads in the fridge.

 

Socks in the toaster.

 

Jam on a magnet (alright, that one he’s making up, but sometimes it does feel rather a lot like living inside an Eddie Izzard sketch. At a morgue.)

 

And Sherlock, who only approves of showing human emotions when they are obnoxious, who must have _some inkling_ of an idea (or an entire encyclopedia stating) that John is ever so slightly in love with him—Sherlock refuses to throw him a bone. Except that one time when he quite literally threw John a bone, and John screamed like a twelve year old girl because for Christ’s sake it still had sticky bits of flesh on it.

 

The point is, he can’t _not know_ , so he’s either ignoring it as irrelevant, or oh-so-subtly attempting to exacerbate the situation into redeeming itself. This is fact, this is the way is Must Be—for John’s sanity, all and sundry, Sherlock Has To Know.

 

So when John stomps up the stairs after yet another instance where he’s been left behind to rot and/or find his own way home while Sherlock fights crime with his innate ability to get strangled quite a lot, and Sherlock, plucking idly at the strings of his violin, says, “Can you see why it would never work out between us, darling?”

 

Well, John spits, “Not a fucking bit,” and slams his door.

 

The house gets very quiet after that.

 

COULD I BE YOU ~ MATCHBOX TWENTY   
you show your pain like it really hurts   
and i can't even start to feel mine   
and i'm standing in place with my head first   
and i shake, i shake 

 

John thought he’d been watched by Sherlock before, in a sort of oh-yeah-that’s-what-Sherlock-does way that meant when Sherlock deduced John’s day by the curl of his collar John didn’t necessarily gasp, “That’s fantastic,” every damn time.

 

That turned out to have been the equivalent of Sherlock peeking under a blindfold, apparently. Instead of pinning him under a microscope like an insect.

 

Not that he's said anything. Not that he ever says anything without prompting—explaining things takes ten times as long as dissecting them—and it's not as if John is asking.

 

John really does not want to know every infinitesimal detail of just how he’s been weighed, measured, and been found wanting, thanks. He just wants to move on.

 

“You were quoting _Pirates of the Caribbean.”_ John is clutching his coffee receipt tucked in his trouser pocket, with the ugliest jumper he owns wrapped around him as a metaphorical emotional buffer. Sherlock probably knows all of that, probably more. He hasn’t blinked since John came in.

 

“Was I?”

 

“Erm.” Alright, new data, same approach. “Well, anyway, I wasn’t paying any mind to what I said. And you shouldn’t either, I didn’t mean…what it sounded like.”

 

“Really.” Now he blinks. “So you haven’t considered, then, the possible ramifications of the two of us entering into a romantic liaison.”   

 

“Entering into a— Sherlock, could you make it sound less like a torrid affair between two members of the MI6?”

 

“Well, I am related to Mycroft; he could probably elevate us to some minor spy capacity if that’s what really—turns your crank.”

 

He says the last few words like he’s enjoying this far too much, and John feels like he’s going to be sick, his own voice quiet and shaky. “Could you not. Please. Poke fun at me.”

 

All emotion in Sherlock’s expression disappears, and he’s as cool and distant and untouchable as a statue in a museum.

 

John grabs his coat and leaves.

 

MY NAME IS TROUBLE ~ NIGHTMARE OF YOU   
this is the last time that i'll hold your hand   
i want to kiss you on the mouth and tell you,   
i'm your biggest fan. 

 

Of course it’s not really his coat, and if he’d been paying any attention he would’ve noticed before he went about jamming his arms into the sleeves. It’s just a little too tight in the shoulders (which is surprising, until he remembers the sheer breadth of his wooly jumper) and it’s too long, he has to look ridiculous. Sherlock must have noticed the instant John’s fingers closed around it, but he hadn’t said anything.

 

Well. So that’s that. John tucks his face into the collar to fight the biting wind and tries his very hardest not to breathe in any sort of scent. Time to get over Sherlock Holmes.

 

ALRIGHT WITH ME ~ KRIS ALLEN   
oh, you're on the run and i'm chasing you   
feels like war with all your glances   
i'm just a boy without a clue   
and i can't control following you 

 

The flat is crawling with cops when he gets back, and John hikes his shoulders high over the lead lump in his belly, avoiding Donovan and all other eye-contact until he can shrug off Sherlock’s coat in the foyer. He’s shaking the snow off it when he reaches the top of the stairs, doesn’t look up when he says, “Another drugs bust, then?”

 

The room goes very still.

 

Then Lestrade lets out a tight, relieved sigh and sort of sags against the fireplace, and before John can ask what’s the matter Sherlock has him by the shoulders in a grip tight enough to bruise. He yanks John away from everyone, demands, “Are you alright?” just as intensely as he had when there was a bomb strapped round his chest.

 

“Yes— Yes, Sherlock, I am, I just—went for a walk, you saw me go for a walk—“

 

“ _Six. Hours_ ago, John.”

 

“God, has it really…?” He fumbles for his phone but he’s digging in Sherlock’s coat pockets and he stops, meets Sherlock’s too-blue gaze. “I left my phone in my jacket.”

 

“John,” Sherlock growls, actually growls, muscles twitching in his jaw as his fingers dig in like they want to burrow through the wooly jumper to John’s skin. “There was a note in the refrigerator that said. ‘Just dropped by for your heart. See you soon. –M.’”

 

“M? M…Molly! Sherlock, I told you Molly was picking up Mr. Ferguson’s heart on Tuesday!”

 

Sherlock releases him as if the jumper has suddenly caught fire, the strangest look on his face. “Ah,” he says, then, “No wonder the crossword was so easy.”

 

Lestrade’s hand, previously rubbing at his temple, flips in a sort of ‘of course’ gesture before the words are even out. “Should I even ask if this was a human heart?”

 

“I can assure you that Mr. Ferguson was a most beloved Labrador Retriever, Inspector,” Sherlock lies without taking his eyes from John. “So sorry to have caused such a fuss. You may all vacate the premises immediately.”

 

As Lestrade gathers his men with a weary wave of his hand and heads out, John takes a step closer to Sherlock and finds—well, there’s not much closer two people can be. “Did you really,” he gets out somehow, “call out half of Scotland Yard to find me because I went for a walk?”

 

“Obviously you haven’t been out walking this whole time,” Sherlock snaps, “You’ve got peanut shells clinging to your sleeves and beer on the soles of your shoes. So a pub, not one of your usual haunts as I would have found you there.”

 

He’s so beautiful, defiant and defensive and he checked all of John’s favorite pubs for him (he _knows_ John’s favorite pubs, despite never coming along every time John offers). And there must be some sort of softening on John’s face he misreads for pity, because Sherlock adds, “The raging blizzard outside obliterated your tracks, you may have noticed. And then to come home to that blasted note—“

 

“You thought I was your heart.” It’s definitely supposed to be a question, but it can’t come out like one with John’s lips curling into a helpless, crooked smile.

 

Sherlock stares at him as if he’s been found even dimmer than previously supposed. Then, every motion telegraphing that he cannot stand one more second of stupidity, he marches those last few inches into John’s space, cups his chin, and tilts it up for a kiss that melts every last snowflake clinging to John’s hair.

 

THE THEIF ~ BROOKE FRASER   
you're breaking   
you're breaking into my heart   
and i'm letting you

 

There’s a great deal to be done. Moriarty needs catching still (obviously) and Sherlock is sure John won’t be nearly so pleased with him once he discovers what Sherlock’s done to the milk, but all of that can wait. This feels rare, even though it isn’t—it shan’t be—watching one John Watson curled against Sherlock’s body, completely unguarded in sleep.

 

This man could so easily be Sherlock’s undoing one day. Moriarty already knows the quickest way to get him to break rules is a little red light between John’s kind eyes.

 

Sherlock studies the light furrow there as John’s nightmares catch up with him, and instead of pressing a kiss there as some sappy voice of societal expectations shakes a cobwebbed finger at him to do, Sherlock sprawls over John, long limbs everywhere, catching him in an embrace when he wakes with a sleepy grunt.

 

“…Sherlock?” When Sherlock doesn’t answer John grumbles something like, “Bed hog,” and burrows closer, tucks his face against Sherlock’s shoulder and falls asleep again before he’s finished yawning.

 

“Goodnight John,” Sherlock murmurs, cataloguing the ease in John’s features, and thinks this will be worth it.

 

 

>[~ ZIP FILE ~](http://www.sendspace.com/file/ph5kvv)


End file.
